


Aftermath

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: 24
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Emotional, First Time, Hand Job, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rare Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-20
Updated: 2007-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his first mission with CTU goes sour, Chase has difficulty dealing with the tragic consequences.  Jack teaches him an unorthodox way to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Set just prior to third season. Thanks to [](http://birdseyeview.livejournal.com/profile)[**birdseyeview**](http://birdseyeview.livejournal.com/) for concrit. Canon errors are all mine.

Chase Edmunds sat inside the rented SUV, his gaze fixed on the third door in the row of townhouses along the quiet cul-de-sac. He sipped at a bottle of water, outwardly calm, patiently waiting for any hint of life to emerge from the complex. His partner Jack sat, quietly alert behind the wheel, scanning up and down the street.

Both agents worked for the Los Angeles Counter-Terrorist Unit, and they were watching for any sign that their target, a Chilean expatriate named Alfonso Ferrara, was on the move. Stake outs were tedious at best; they'd been living in their Explorer since daybreak after relieving the night watch, keeping inconspicuous through the stream of vehicles beginning their daily commutes and the morning school rush. CTU had been tailing their quarry for several weeks, carefully cataloging his movements. Ferrara was a known gun-runner who had suspected links to the Salazar drug mafia operating out of Mexico, but he normally kept a low profile and was difficult to track. They had been scoping this neighborhood for the past three days.

Every once in a while Chase's gaze flickered over to observe Jack in profile. Chase felt uneasy that their quarry had holed up in such an upscale suburban neighborhood full of children; he couldn't shake the feeling that that was an impending recipe for disaster. Jack was worried too; though Jack appeared superficially relaxed, Chase could see the apprehension in the lines around his eyes.

Despite that, Chase was excited. On his very first mission for CTU, fresh out of CIA training, he could not believe that he had been assigned to Jack Bauer's detail. He'd never admit it, but he was eager to impress the legendary senior agent. So far, he thought he was doing a good job. Jack hadn't complained about his being there, anyway. He did wonder why Jack was running a routine surveillance operation after returning from a recent undercover mission, instead of the more glamorous work he'd expected Jack would be doing. But Jack didn't say, and Chase was only glad for the chance to work with him, so he didn't ask.

Hours passed in relative silence as the sun reached its midpoint. Despite the open windows, it grew stifling inside the SUV. Chase felt his shirt cling to his back underneath his flak jacket, and he noted a thin film of sweat along Jack's upper lip. Chase was growing bored and anxious, though he tried not to show it. Jack glanced over his way once or twice with a sympathetic look. Chase forced himself to relax, thinking if Jack could handle this deathly boredom, he could too.

"School's letting out for lunch," Chase commented on hearing a bell behind them.

"Watch the townhouse," Jack advised. "If Ferrara's going to leave, he'll do it under cover of the kids walking home."

Chase nodded and studied the third door again. A bush of white peonies sat near the entrance, and two hangers of bougainvillea draped along the sides. In his peripheral vision, he saw a young woman walking on the sidewalk, approaching the townhouse complex. She wore a waitress' uniform and pushed a fold-up stroller with a small child inside. His fat little legs kicked out from the fabric seat. Chase smiled at that. Jack, tracking Chase's line of sight, saw it too and his mouth twitched amiably.

The third door opened and Ferrara, a thin balding man, stepped outside.

"Here he comes," Jack warned.

Chase tensed, his hand on the passenger door handle, ready to spring at a moment's notice. It appeared that Ferrara wasn't going anywhere though; he simply stood on the front step beside the peonies, casually smoking a cigarette. Ferrara scanned the street, his eyes narrow.

The woman pushing the stroller passed in front of Ferrara's townhouse.

Ferrara tossed his cigarette butt into the peony bush beside the front steps.

A silver BMW with unidentifiable license plates flashed along the street and rounded the loop of the cul-de-sac. Both Chase and Jack watched Ferrara tense at the sight of the BMW. Ferrara reached behind his back.

"He's got a gun!" Chase hissed.

The young woman froze in terror at the sight of Ferrara's gun aimed at the vehicle now directly behind her.

Automatic gunfire erupted from the BMW as it drove past Ferrara's townhouse, narrowly missing the young woman and shattering the front window. She screamed and dove over the stroller.

From there on, everything exploded into bits and pieces in Chase's brain.

Ferrara darted from the relative safety of his front step towards the woman.

Jack threw open the car door, his semi already pulled from his holster, and bolted from the SUV. "This is Special Agent Jack Bauer of CTU Los Angeles. Everybody clear the area!"

Chase's heart pounded, adrenalin flowing freely as he jumped out and rounded the front of the SUV. "Freeze and put down your weapon!" he shouted, sounding foreign even to himself.

But they weren't quite fast enough. Ferrara shoved the young woman off the stroller and yanked the squirming child right out of it, holding him in front of his chest like a shield.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Jack shouted. "EVERYBODY GET DOWN!"

"Target has a hostage. Repeat, target has a hostage!" Chase snapped into his radio amidst the screams of terrified neighbors. "We need backup NOW!"

"Acknowledged, Charlie Delta One. Backup's on its way. Do you have a position on the suspect and hostage?"

"Suspect has hostage in front of the townhouse complex."

Chase followed Jack's lead, darting over left and across the road, while Jack rounded right and vaulted over the low stone wall in the front yard. Each approached Ferrara from opposite angles on the edge of the manicured lawn, their Lugers cocked and ready.

"FREEZE, Ferrara!" Jack shouted.

Ferrara froze with his hand on the door handle and turned around. Chase now saw that the hostage was about two years old, and was shrieking in terror, with fat tears streaming down his little red face.

"Step back!" Ferrara shouted. "Step back or I'll kill him, I swear!" He pushed the muzzle of his semi-automatic against the little boy's dark head.

"Put the child down," Jack continued, in a deathly calm voice. "You don't need him. Put him down and lie down on the ground with your hands on your head, and I guarantee you won't get hurt."

Ferrara scowled at Jack. "You can't make me!"

"Give up the child and you won't get hurt!" Chase yelled in growing frustration. He stepped forward, aiming at Ferrara's head, angling for a clean shot.

Their gazes met, and in that instant, time dilated. Chase's eyes widened as he saw Ferrara smile a feral grin, then begin to squeeze the trigger in slow motion.

He didn't even recognize his own voice as he yelled, "Jack, he's going to--"

Two shots fired almost instantaneously, sharp cracks roaring in Chase's ears.

The little boy's shrieks cut off abruptly, followed by utter silence.

Ferrara crumpled like a rag doll to the ground, blood oozing from one neat bullet-hole through his high forehead. He fell forward and tumbled down the two front steps, already dead, his hostage firmly ensconced in his final death grip.

Chase stood, frozen in place. Belatedly he realized his gun wasn't hot; Jack had fired. The smell of blood, salt and iron and sea, mixed with the scorch of gunpowder and heated metal, and some small, puzzled part of Chase thought how strangely clashing they were in the midst of peonies and freshly-mowed grass.

Piercing screams echoed faintly in the distance, muffled by the thudding of Chase's heart. Beside him, Jack lowered his gun. That movement triggered life again; sound rushed in, and Chase was able to move his legs. He rushed to the top step, to roll over the dead hostage-taker and pry the small boy from the bastard's arms.

He only just managed to resist the urge to kick the asshole's ribs as he scooped the child up. He leapt down the three steps and onto the grass where he fell to his knees to check the child out, all the while praying _Maybe the motherfucker missed please God in Your mercy please let him have_ missed--

But the boy wasn't moving. He regarded Chase with an endless, glassy stare.

_Oh Christ Jesus, no--_ Chase placed two fingers along the carotid artery in the child's neck, praying for a pulse, a flutter, anything. _Please please PLEASE..._

There was none. _Shitshitshit..._

"Come on, little guy!" he begged as he leaned down to seal his lips around the child's mouth and nose. He could taste blood and tears now, warm and metallic. _Don't give up on me now._

He only barely noticed the footsteps pounding in the distance, coming closer.

The boy was still warm. _Two quick puffs, thirty fast compressions, repeat until help comes--_

Chase lifted his head, frantically looking round to find anyone who would listen.

"We need a medic!" Chase screamed, his throat raw. "Medic! MEDIC! NOW, GODDAMNIT!"

Jack knelt beside him. "Chase," he murmured.

Chase ignored him, counting frantically under his breath. "Three and four and five--"

He felt a weight drop, warm and heavy on his shoulder. Jack's hand. "Chase. _Stop. _ It's over. He's dead."

"No!" Chase gasped, pretending not to hear; still compressing the child's chest with his two fingers. _Training. Remember your CPR training. Toddler, two fingers on the sternum and depress one inch, two breaths every thirty compressions--_

"_Chase._"

He started to struggle up onto his feet, the boy's body limp in his arms, feeling his own eyes wide and unfocused. He stared into Jack's lined, weary face. "Jack, we have to do this, we have to save--"

"He's gone, Chase. There's nothing we can do to help him anymore."

Chase blinked at the catch in his voice. _Oh God_, those were _tears_ welling in Jack Bauer's eyes...

He stared down blankly at the broken doll-like body in his arms, uncomprehending at first. The dark-red matted brown hair--

_Oh Christ--_

Then he saw the blood and gray matter that covered his flak jacket, his shirt sleeves and his hands.

Looking down clearly now, he saw that the top of the child's skull had been completely blown off, leaving only a flap of skin and hair where there should have been his forehead.

"The fucking asshole," Chase whispered, trying to hold back the bile rising in his throat. "That _fucking asshole--_"

His knees buckled underneath him; he felt the weight taken from him, gently, but he didn't fight it. Through rapidly narrowing tunnel vision, he saw Jack cradle the small body (lightweight, so light), watched Jack's trembling fingers close those blank eyes, that surely had once been blue, forever; Chase was barely able to see anything else.

Chase rose and staggered three steps, before he collapsed onto the grass and vomited all over his shoes.

~~~~~

 

The next few hours passed in a swirling gray haze.

Somehow, in that time, Jack and Chase had returned to CTU headquarters, where Chase was first cleaned up and examined by the medical staff for any injuries. None, of course, were found, that were physical, anyway; samples were taken for analysis, blood from his shirt, gore from his fingernails. Jack stood by his side silently throughout as the doctors checked Chase over. Afterwards, Jack accompanied him to the locker room, where he refused to shower, but he found some clean clothes to change into. Then they went to the CTU control center, cold and dark despite the fluorescent lighting, where Jack gave the debriefing to the Head of Ops, Tony Almeida.

Chase stood, staring at the drab carpet, answering Tony's questions only in monosyllables. Tony's dark somber eyes seemed to bore into him, searching for answers; but Chase had none, though he wished he knew why. He didn't know half of what Tony said to him; he heard the words "grief counseling", "as much time off as you need" and "post-traumatic stress", but none of them registered. He simply nodded and heard himself mumble something incoherent, that might have been a thank you.

Jack kept his hand on his shoulder the whole time during the debriefing, and that gesture seemed to be the only real thing that mattered in Chase's mind. Then Tony sent Chase out of the room to talk to Jack alone. Chase waited outside the door, slumped in his chair. Other CTU staff passed him by on their various errands, all of them carefully avoiding his face, and he avoided looking at theirs too.

After what could have been hours, or minutes, Jack finally emerged from the debriefing room, and Chase felt that warm broad hand on his shoulder again. He looked up into Jack's lined face.

"Let's go," Jack murmured, and Chase complied, rising from his seat.

They froze though, when they met Michelle Dessler, with a young woman who could only have been the dead boy's mother. Chase faintly recognized her from the kidnapping. She was barely a child herself—her face white, her eyes lifeless, still wearing the fast food uniform she'd had on when the perp ripped the little boy from her arms. She stopped when she saw Jack and Chase, and held out one trembling hand.

"Please, do you know where Brady is--"

Chase took a step towards her, his hands held out, placating; but Jack thrust his arm out, holding him back. Jack then stepped forward to meet her himself. "I am so sorry for your loss," Jack murmured sadly. "Agent Edmunds and I did everything we could."

He watched Jack take and squeeze both her hands, and watched her bow her head, her face crumpling, and nod. Michelle put an arm around her shivering form and led her into the debriefing room, leaving him and Jack standing helpless in the cold, half-dark hall.

"Come on, Chase," Jack said heavily, and there was that hand on his shoulder again. "Let's go."

Chase turned towards him and blinked, uncomprehending. "Wha--?"

"You're coming home with me."

Only then did he notice that Jack had grabbed his gym bag from his locker and had swung it onto his shoulder. "We'll get you some things from your place first. Then you'll stay with me tonight. The last thing you'll want is to be alone."

Chase opened his mouth to protest—the last thing he wanted right now was company, especially Jack's—but the quiet authority in Jack's voice stilled him. It was obvious that Jack would brook no argument. He followed Jack's lead, trailing him by a couple of steps into the parking garage and to Jack's SUV. He climbed inside sullenly, and didn't speak, only staring at the passing scenery in the city as Jack drove to his apartment. Thankfully Jack didn't press him for any words.

When they reached Chase's apartment, Chase refused to get out, so Jack went into his apartment, returning a few minutes later with a noticeably fuller gym bag. They drove back to Jack's in silence. Jack kept glancing over at Chase, a worried expression on his face, but Chase kept his jaw firmly clenched. He hadn't asked Jack to stay with him, much less bring him back to his own quarters; but at the same time refusing orders from a senior officer was grounds for dismissal. Even through the growing clouds of confusion, anger and grief, he still wanted to impress Jack.

And if he were honest, a small part of him was grateful that Jack wasn't abandoning him to face these demons by himself.

Like a puppy, he followed Jack into his small but cozy home. He didn't notice much however; the tunnel vision that had started soon after the shooting prevented him from seeing anything that wasn't directly ahead. Outside, the sun was setting, and darkness was closing in. He sat down on Jack's couch, staring at some point on the white wall in front of him in the deepening gloom of evening.

"Want something to eat?" Jack offered. Chase shook his head mutely; any thought of food made his stomach turn over. Jack disappeared into the kitchen area, and Chase heard, but did not recognize, the sounds of dishes clattering, or cupboards opening and closing. When Jack returned, he carried a couple of bottles of beer and some beef sandwiches. He slid a plate and a beer over to Chase and sat down heavily in the opposite armchair, propping his feet on the table.

Chase's gaze darted everywhere, resting on nothing. The shock and numbness was beginning to dissipate, leaving him dangerously raw and vulnerable; the last thing he wanted to display before his superior officer. Christ, he wanted that numbness back. He grabbed the sweating bottle of beer by the neck, and drained it in three ravenous swallows. He slammed the bottle on the wood table.

"Got anything stronger?"

Jack, caught with a mouthful of sandwich, regarded him evenly as he chewed and swallowed. "Alcohol won't--"

"Whiskey? Vodka?"

Jack blinked, but slowly nodded his acquiescence, inclining his head to the side. "In the liquor cabinet."

Chase rose and almost leapt to the cabinet in his eagerness. He rummaged through the shelves and pulled out his find, a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He unscrewed the cap and swigged directly from the bottle.

Jack set his plate down and rose as well, stepping over to where Chase stood. "You need to slow down," he said quietly.

Chase wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand and grinned, feeling his skin pull with the effort. With his empty stomach, the buzz was already assaulting his brain.

"Not like that'll fix anything," he replied, not hiding his bitterness. "So why bother?" He hefted the bottle again—only for Jack to grab his arm before he could raise the bottle to his lips.

"Listen to me," Jack said, low and urgent. "I know this is your first mission with me and it's gone sour. It wasn't the way it was supposed to go. But these things happen. You need to learn how to deal with them. And you need to learn now, or it will tear you apart."

Chase said nothing, his lips pursed shut, and he averted his gaze. He wrenched his hand out of Jack's grasp, turned away and pulled another long swallow from the whiskey bottle, not even wincing this time as the liquid fire burned through to his stomach.

"Dammit, Chase, look at me."

No one dared ignore the authority in that quiet voice. Reluctantly, Chase turned back towards Jack. His expression was terrible, his mouth set, his voice grim. "We lose far too many good agents because they can't bring themselves to deal with what they encounter. And you're a good agent. So you have to deal. Because if you can't deal, I don't want you on my team. Are we clear?"

Chase nodded. "Crystal clear, Agent Bauer," he replied in a surly tone; then he swallowed another mouthful of whiskey.

If Jack flinched inwardly at the rebuke in his voice, Chase never noticed; but Jack stood his ground, quietly insistent. Chase took three steps and sank back onto the couch, his knees suddenly wobbly.

"How do you deal with this, Jack?" he finally asked, his voice bleak and hoarse. "How?"

He watched Jack hesitate, blinking as if trying to think what to say; then Jack reached over and pulled the bottle of Jack Daniel's from Chase's fist. "Not like this," Jack replied, his voice gentle enough to hurt. "Not like this. You've had more than enough. Put this away."

"Fuck you," Chase said in an empty tone. But he didn't try to fight either; he simply took one unsteady step towards the bottle in Jack's hand, then stumbled. Well, that was it, he was piss-ass drunk. Way to complete his utter humiliation in front of his idol. He was too drunk to throw a coherent punch, for sure. He was not drunk enough to forget the child's screaming—the final shot—the instant deafening silence.

He would probably never be drunk enough to forget that.

"I'm taking a shower," Chase mumbled, and lurched from the room.

Jack capped the bottle and set it down on the table, then sank into his armchair, rubbing his eyes with one hand. _Dammit._ Chase was closing down, shutting in, and if anyone knew just how bad an idea that was, he did. How long ago had it been, when he'd been in Chase's place and his first mission went so horribly south--?

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then clenched his fist. Like Chase, he'd once thought getting drunk would be enough to fill the void, but he'd learned since then that alcohol wasn't the answer. And there was no way in hell he'd tell Chase of his current means of dealing. He snorted at the irony of the double-entendre.

He could--he looked down, pinched his nose briefly. He _could--_

It wasn't perfect, far from it, it couldn't take the heartache away. But it was a damned sight better than getting pissed, then having to deal with both the pain and the inevitable hangover the next day.

_Or the cramps of sudden withdrawal_, his inner voice hissed.

_And a happy fuck you, too._

But he could--if Chase would let him, if he explained why--_because someone did it for you once and it helped you through. It will help him too--_

Yes.

In the bathroom, Chase leaned against the closed door, staring at the blistering paint on the ceiling for what seemed like hours, his eyes hot and gritty; and he blinked repeatedly but he dared not look at anything else. He slowly sank to the floor, hearing Jack prowl restlessly around the outer room, but he didn't care.

He blindly rose and reached for the shower tap. The water was almost hot enough to burn, but Chase didn't mind; stripping and stepping into the blessed heat he simply wanted, _needed_ to scourge himself clean of the innocent blood that had permanently stained his hands. At least the physical pain helped him not to think about what he'd seen, and done. _And failed to do._

He felt rather than heard the door open, announced by the cool rush of air from the outer room. Behind the translucent shower curtain, Chase saw Jack's silhouette enter, close the door and sit on the toilet lid, waiting. His unspoken _Do you want to talk?_ reverberated through the bathroom as loudly as a gunshot and Chase winced.

_What do you want me to say, Jack?_ Chase raged inwardly. _There's a child dead and I couldn't stop it? That I let you down? That I can't stop thinking about it? What the hell else is there that you don't already know?_

After a few minutes though, blessedly Jack left the bathroom, still without saying anything. Chase remained soaking in the shower for a long time, the near-scalding water pounding onto his shoulders and turning them red, until the water started to turn cold and the drunkenness subsided to utter exhaustion. There was soap, somewhere; he reached for it blindly, lathering and rinsing on auto-pilot.

Even after turning the shower off, he stood in there, shivering in the cool misted air but unable to bring himself to move. He knew he needed to get out, dry off, dress, try to sleep. Normal, everyday things. How could he manage now, when nothing would ever be normal anymore?

After what seemed hours, Chase finally stepped into the hall, with one of Jack's bath towels wrapped low around his hips. He avoided Jack's saddened gaze as he donned flannel track pants and a T-shirt from his gym bag. Each movement took an eternity with his limbs too leaden to lift and flex properly.

The small lucid part of him was grateful for Jack's presence even as the rest of him resented it, telling him that Jack hadn't been there when it counted, hadn't been able to save--

No. _Chase_ hadn't been able to save that baby. He knew it, and it was going to stay with him for the rest of his life. That wasn't Jack's fault.

The ache in his limbs was moving and condensing into a tight ball of misery in his chest, and Chase knew he was close to losing it. The last thing he wanted was for his senior partner, the legendary Jack Bauer, the man he'd so wanted to emulate throughout his CTU training, to see him break and shatter to pieces.

"Going to sleep now, Jack, you can go, thanks," he said curtly, padding off towards the bedroom. Jack followed a step behind. Inside he found the covers already turned down, as if waiting for him. One lone bedside lamp illuminated the room, and he reached over to turn it off. Jack still remained. _Please go, now, before I break._ The room was thrown into full darkness as he slid down on the bed on top of the sheet, not bothering to pull up the covers.

Then Chase felt a shifting weight at the side of the bed as Jack sat down on the edge beside him.

Chase stared resolutely at the darkened stucco-ed ceiling to avoid having to look at Jack's face, especially his somber eyes. Undeterred, Jack silently reached out and grasped his cold hand, gripping it tightly, covering it with warmth.

That simple gesture undid Chase completely; the hot ball that had lodged in his chest, now rose to his throat, choking off his air. He tried to inhale but could manage only a shuddering hiss past the lump. He squeezed his eyes shut against the threatening flood, but a few stray tears slid out anyway from between his closed lids.

"Oh fuck, Jack," he choked, his voice breaking at last and dissolving into one great gasping sob. "Why? WHY?"

He shook his head helplessly against the onslaught, breath escaping in uncontrolled shudders. Then Chase felt a rough hand steady his tossing head; one calloused thumb swiping gently at the wet tracks sliding from Chase's eyes and down his temples. The hand rested against the side of his head, lightly running over his military-cropped hair, and Chase gratefully leaned into the touch, his face crumpling like a child's. Unwilling to open his eyes, he was embarrassed at breaking like this; but thankful it was dark enough in the room that Jack really couldn't see him blubbering like a baby.

At the same time that small lucid part at the back of his brain marveled at Jack's surprising gentleness towards him; he had no doubt that he could put himself into Jack's capable hands.

After a few minutes the maelstrom began to subside. As it slowed, he felt that warm broad hand slide against his cheek, and Chase remembered he'd forgotten to shave. Then he felt Jack's fingers trace over his jawbone and down his neck, startlingly light and graceful. They moved down to his collarbone and shoulder, over his chest; the touch was tender and soothing, almost hypnotic, and Chase found himself stifling a sigh despite himself. He was feeling vaguely embarrassed by what had happened, but was too drained to care, and he felt himself slipping towards what would become a restless slumber.

Jack watched Chase relax, draining away towards exhaustion. Chase was already tired enough to fall asleep; but he knew it wouldn't last, and Chase would shoot awake and frantic in a few hours as the day's events morphed and solidified into nightmare. Chase needed something deeper than that. And already the fine line of tension was returning, furrowing his eyebrows.

Jack trained his gaze on Chase's face, only barely making his deadened features out in the dark, while slowly inching his hand lower. "Shh, it's all right," he murmured as his free hand slid down, over his ribs; he kept his voice soft and reassuring, whispering comforting nonsense syllables as he ghosted past the waistband of his drawstring pants, to smooth over his stomach and trace along the plane of his hip.

Chase's eyes flew open in shock as he realized where Jack's hand was heading, and he locked gazes with him. _What the hell_? -- "Jack? What the fuck are you...?" He struggled to rise, but Jack simply pushed him back down onto the bed with one iron hand.

"It's OK," he whispered, his voice infinitely soft. "It's all right. Trust me, Chase. Just relax and let this happen."

Chase scowled at him, still struggling, then froze when he caught the mix of carefully controlled anguish and determination on Jack's own haggard face. Jack renewed his grip on Chase's hand, holding it tight, while his other hand reached down to his crotch to cup him through the thin flannel. Chase closed his eyes, biting his lip to keep it from trembling.

Now used to the low light in the room, Jack observed clearly as arousal warred with shock, grief and confusion on the young man's features. He deliberately traced the outline of Chase's penis underneath the fabric, feeling it twitch and harden in response. "You need to forget what happened for a while. This will make it better, I promise you. I've been where you are, and I know how much you hurt right now. So let me help you forget."

_Oh fuck--this isn't right_, Chase screamed inwardly, his mind protesting even as his body instinctively arched up against Jack's palm, as Jack slowly rubbed and coaxed him to full hardness beneath his trousers. What Jack was doing—burning shame replaced the stunned numbness even as the lucid part of his mind whispered _he's right, let him and you can let it go for a while. _

His eyes opened and he looked at Jack full on--Jack gazed into his face, calm and steady in the near darkness. His craggy features carried no hint of desire or arousal, just--concern--and underneath that, something else, shrouded in those sober blue/green eyes. Then Jack squeezed Chase's hand--and Chase realized he didn't want to hurt anymore, he didn't want those images of blood and death and shattered innocence hovering at the edge of his vision to follow him into his dreams.

This wasn't bad--maybe not _right_, but not _bad_\--and he needed it. _Christ_ he needed it. Those images would haunt him for the rest of his life—right now he'd do anything to forget them even if only for a while. So Chase fell back, acquiescing, into the mattress, finally understanding it for what it was.

He raised his hips slightly to allow Jack to tug his flannel trousers down to his knees for better access, and to slide his T-shirt above his navel. Cool air played over Chase's heated skin, making him gasp; then Jack's hand was back, fingers curled deftly around his now-aching erection. Chase squeezed Jack's other hand still holding his own, reaching in desperate need of contact, warmth, comfort.

Jack watched Chase writhe, listened to him gasp and moan with each measured stroke, knowing this was only temporary respite he could give him. But it was something positive for Chase to focus on, to latch onto, and really, he'd soon begin to understand why. And indeed, soon enough Chase forgot it was Jack's hand wrapped around him and bringing him off. Jack watched Chase concentrate, his eyes squeezed shut, his face contorted and his jaw clenched; his fingers of his free hand scrabbling against the sheets.

Chase thrust upwards into Jack's fist, his hips pumping with ever-increasing rhythm; he felt Jack's hand, faster and tighter and hotter, and _oh holy God_ Jack knew, he _knew_ what he was going through, he felt it in Jack's hand clutching his own. Even as he rushed headlong toward orgasm, he clung to that hand holding his, solid and warm and safe. When Chase did let go, surrendering to release at last with a strangled gasp, Jack still held on to Chase's hand, his grip firm and strong.

Afterwards, Chase lay senseless and sated, his arm flung over his face, while Jack fetched a warm wet washcloth and towels from the bathroom and cleaned him up with heartbreakingly gentle ministrations; he pulled up Chase's pants, tied the drawstring, even covered him with the sheet and comforter, tucking him into bed.

Jack squeezed his hand one more time before letting go. Still boneless and spent and shaking, Chase uncovered his face, suddenly missing the contact, the warmth of those linked fingers; the sheer comfort Jack exuded. He couldn't bear to lose that, not just yet. "Stay, Jack," Chase finally managed to whisper, begging and not caring. "Please. Just--stay till I fall asleep, OK?"

Jack, already at the door with his hand on the doorknob, hesitated, his mouth twisting as he stared down at the floor. "Yeah," he finally answered. "OK." Jack toed off his boots, returned to the bed and lay down, on top of the sheets and fully clothed, beside him. Chase wriggled his arm out from under the covers; his hand slid down Jack's arm to find his hand again, linking their fingers together. Chase squeezed hard enough to hurt in wordless thanks, and Jack squeezed back in equally silent acknowledgment.

Jack lay quietly, staring at the ceiling, until he felt Chase's grip slacken and his breathing deepen in the rhythm of sleep. With a weary sigh, Jack let go and rose from the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Chase didn't stir, thank God; he was sound asleep now. He would be OK until the morning, when the light of the sun would help him begin to settle today's nightmare.

Good for Chase.

Jack left and returned to his living room, where he sat in complete darkness, staring at the bottle of Jack Daniel's on the coffee table but not pouring a glass. He brooded for a long, long time. Chase was a good operative. He knew that. Though today's horror was something everyone encountered eventually in this line of work. Jack knew better than anyone, how it could make or break an agent's career. Chase was made of strong stuff—stunned by it and forced to his knees by it, perhaps, but he stayed. Next time, Chase would know what to do.

Jack allowed himself one dry, mirthless chuckle at that, as he picked a hole in the fabric of the armchair pad. He had been Chase once; had been just as young and scared and confused in the face of brutal loss.

Once he even knew how to handle it without surrendering himself.

But things had changed, and God how he hated himself for it.

There was only one way for him to deal now. Thankfully Chase was passed out, and would never know. Snorting with the irony of it, he pulled out the small silver case from the inner pocket of his jacket. He did what he needed to do, quickly and without further thought, wincing only slightly at the prick in the webbing between his fingers. Then he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and waited for the blessed oblivion to overtake him.


End file.
